Chotokhato Ghotona (A Trivial Matter)
Quarrying for affection
the boy is digging the flesh
under the dress.
In the girl's terrorized
naked eyes
spring returns
to her slackening boughs.
And this is how
the ragged thread
of holy reverence
falls off her defeated wrist.
In the river that flows off her tips
the boy still imagines,
spellbound by sorcery,
the coy shadows of the forest flame.
We aren't shocked though,
nor outraged
by the scene that's unfolding.
Don't we know how every spring
somewhere an assassin
turns a lover. Somewhere,
a lover turns assassin.
Symptom
Do not fear
when love begins to wear;
no one shall know.
Things still go on
as they did before.
The cinemas, restaurants,
the book fairs too…
The exchange of rings
on the seven star terrace
drenched in moonshine.
And the dot on time birthday
call. Right at midnight…
Just like yesterday.
When the level of love
begins to drop
blood tests fail
to figure the fall.
No wave seemingly
out of place
in the USG, X-Ray, ECG.
Normalcy all around.
However,
if the elaborate efforts of eyeliner,
mascara fail to disguise
the peerless emptiness
cloaking the eyes,
fear not, nonetheless.
No one shall ever invent
an instrument to measure
the degree of emptiness.
Setu (Bridge)
The distance remained.
Though at one point
a bridge was built.
You had provided the steel.
And I, the timber.
Cheerfully, we had
brought our hands together
to raise a bridge, strong and sound,
over the river of separation.
And then we waited
on our respective shores,
eager to watch
who'd be the first to walk,
whose need was greater
and who was self-reliant enough to stall.
The bridge is still untrodden
since neither of us chose to accept defeat.
The floor boards creak,
growing frail
under the heaviness
of sighs exhaled.
And now we want
the bridge to collapse.
We are desperate to
see it fall.
Yet neither of us wants
to be the first to score.
We tick like dynamites
on either shore.
For, once more,
the question hangs,
who has the greater need,
and who is more…
Chinamati (China Clay)
It begins with
the parting of desires.
Then the beds and
later, the homes.
Finally the cities.
Summons from lawyers
couriered to
different addresses.
Debating over
the legitimate owner
of the porcelain vase
bought on honeymoon.
Alas, who could have known
a thing as fragile
as burnt porcelain
could stay unscathed
spring after spring?
Chetona (Consciousness)
The humming of an Esraj
from the pits of midnight,
scarlet birdsongs on
a flawless dawn,
reckless wanton
weeds of the wild
and the spring-brook laughter
of many a child
help me rise.
The wide-eyed night-life
of sleepless stars,
the playful banter of
clouds and hills,
gentle rivers that bring
showers of rain
and flowers of spring,
with their petals still tight,
help me rise.
They stand steadfast -
an army of sentinels
at the door-post of my wreckage.
Every time
the pettiness of humanity
and the hollow duplicity
of civilizations ravage,
rip and drag me
to the abysmal nadir
of no return...
Every time, at
these very moments,
they help me rise.
I survive. Revived.
Brought ashore once more
by tireless divers,
by the eternal breathing
of oaks, and banyans
who tell me,
There’s hope still.
Have faith. Hold on.
Hold on... a little more...
(These five poems by Ananya Chatterjee from her Bengali book 'Alor Sondhane' (Darabar Jayga, 2022) have been jointly translated by Chatterjee and Amit Shankar Saha.
Ananya Chatterjee is a bilingual poet with four collections of English poems to her credit, the latest being "Unbuilding Walls'. She has translated the poems of noted actor Soumitra Chatterjee in the coffee table book "Forms Within" and is also translating the poems of the acclaimed painter Jogen Chowdhury.
Dr Amit Shankar Saha is an Assistant Professor in the Department of English at Seacom Skills University. He is also a short story writer and a poet who has won the Poiesis Award for Excellence in Literature (2015) and Wordweavers Prize for poetry in 2011 and for short story in 2014)
